Alien Wars Read online

  “No, no,” Darcy said. “It just proves that coincidences do happen.”

  “I have not come to argue,” Toll Three said. “The Prime Web-Mind desires information.”

  “Can I ask a question?” Jick said.

  Toll Three’s head swiveled. He regarded Jick standing in back. “Speak.”

  “You really want to know what this object is, don’t you?”

  The cyborg said nothing, waiting.

  Jick swallowed nervously. He was scratching his left palm. “Look, it’s clear you’re honest. I give you something and you give me something, right?”

  Again, the cyborg said nothing.

  “I want preferred treatment,” Jick said.

  “Explain your statement,” Toll Three said.

  “If I give you what you want, you need to give me what I want.”

  “What is your desire?”

  “Good treatment to begin with. We can talk about what else you can give me.”

  “You know about the construct?” Toll Three asked.

  “Of course,” Jick said. “I wasn’t supposed to say. Senior Darcy doesn’t know anything. I’m the one you want to talk to about this thing.”

  Darcy knew Jick was lying. He had his lying look. The weasel didn’t want the agonizer to touch him. That’s what this was about.

  Toll Three studied his wrist device. The cyborg nodded. “You will report to the Prime Web-Mind.”

  Whatever that thing sensed, Jick was such a good liar that he could beat it. Darcy found that interesting.

  “Sure, sure,” Jick said, blinking rapidly.

  Toll Three turned to the airlock. As he did, the other thing holding Darcy released her. The meld of human and machine reached for Jick.

  “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing? I’ll come peacefully.”

  The cyborg grabbed him by the upper arms. Then it followed Toll Three to the airlock, marching Jick along.

  “Good-bye, Jick,” Glissim called.

  He looked back at them. Sweat glistened on his face and fear swam in his eyes.

  Darcy was ashamed that she felt relieved seeing Jick go. What would the cyborgs do to the rest of the crew? What would the Kresh do later? Oh, this was awful.

  The cyborgs and Jick entered the airlock. They squeezed together tighter than people would do. Jick stood between them, and Darcy could hear him groan.

  The inner airlock slid shut, and the cyborgs and Jick disappeared from view.

  “Will he be okay?” Glissim asked.

  Darcy doubted that very much.

  15

  Far away from the outer asteroid belt, Cyrus Gant panted with exhaustion as he journeyed through a dark and dreary realm. He had no idea where this place existed. It seemed as if he’d walked forever in pitch darkness. He had a searing headache as he searched for an exit from this realm.

  Yes, and then where will I go? I don’t belong here. This is—not a dream. But there’s something I’m not remembering.

  In the dark, he trod over sand, dirt, rocks, and slime. Hideous fumes accompanied the last. He slid and fell until slippery mud coated him. He continued walking. The foul substance eventually dried in his hair. For a time, he waded up to his ankles in squishy mud. He bent low and tasted the water. With a grunt, he spat it out. He wasn’t that thirsty, not yet, at least.

  Soon thereafter, he heard a slithering sound behind him.

  He froze in horror. What was out there?

  He heard a distant wheeze such as a sea cow might make. He’d watched a video on them in the institute on Crete. A strange wet slapping sound caused him to start. Whatever was out there headed toward him.

  Cyrus carried a hand-sized stone. At times, he’d scraped the stone against others, putting an edge to it. A Berserker Clan primitive would have sniffed in disdain at his tool. To Cyrus, it was his cherished possession.

  He paused. Berserker Clan primitive? I should know what that is.

  The slithering sounds increased, and Cyrus heard grunts timed with the wet slap of mud.

  Carefully, he moved away from the thing. Each time his foot lifted, however, there was a slimy sucking sound.

  A terrible laugh came out of the darkness. It chilled Cyrus’s flesh. The nearing thing shouted with incomprehensible words then. Others farther away took up the cry.

  Cyrus bit his lip in indecision.

  The slithering sounds drew nearer. So did the scoop of mud, and then a low muttering. Cyrus stood utterly still, although he began to tremble.

  The slithering thing laughed and made a terrible lunge. It was closer than Cyrus realized. A cold hand grasped his ankle. It had incredible strength and ground his anklebones together. Cyrus bellowed with rage and horror. He swung, and the rock cracked against a skull. The thing groaned, although its cold grip tightened painfully.

  Cyrus hacked repeatedly. The fifth blow caused the rock to slip out of his slimy grasp. With desperate strength he kicked his ankle free.

  There was something terribly familiar about this, but he couldn’t place it.

  Distant shouts became frantic. There were many of these things out there. The splashing said so.

  Cyrus floundered in the mud as he searched for his stone. He felt along the length of the dazed creature and discovered a bloated, man-shaped torso with arms and a head, but lacking legs. It was as naked, as sleek as a seal. He felt blubbery lips and pointed teeth like a cannibal.

  What is this thing?

  Cyrus’s searching fingers touched stone. He gripped it, tearing it out of the mud.

  The bloated thing muttered slurred words. Cyrus slipped and slid in the slime as he ran away from it.

  I will defeat you.

  Never, Cyrus thought.

  You must submit.

  A ragged laugh tore out of Cyrus’s parched throat.

  Don’t you understand what’s at stake?

  No, Cyrus said through telepathy. Tell me.

  Submit and you shall learn.

  Vaguely, Cyrus realized he’d been through tests like this before. Something tried to dominate his mind, his thoughts. An alien fought him. Yes, that’s right. The alien entity had put him here in the dark.

  The understanding retreated from his awareness as Cyrus ran from the croaking creatures until the air burned down his throat. He ran until his side ached as if daggers thrust into him. His legs wobbled, and sweat washed away the coating slime. Then he bashed against a wall. It sent him reeling backward. Far in the distance, creatures hooted with glee.

  Sobbing with effort, Cyrus felt along the wall, wading. Here, the slime deepened into water. Soon, he stood up to his waist. If only he had a flashlight, clothes, and good boots. What had happened to his courage? Didn’t he used to be brave?

  It was hard to be courageous in the dark, he realized, while naked and chased by slithering, cannibalistic monstrosities. He waded up to his chest and his toes squished between rubbery growths. The stench was worse than a dung pit.

  He felt along the wall the entire time. Finally, a protrusion pushed against his hand. His exhausted mind took several heartbeats to understand what he held. It was a rung. He tapped his stone against it. The rung was metal. He pulled himself upward, reaching with his other hand, and touched another rung.

  How high did they go? To find out, he would have to release his stone.

  Indecision filled him until he grew aware that the chasing things no longer slithered, but splashed as if swimming.

  Cyrus dropped the rock and began to climb. There were more rungs, about fifty of them. They led to a hole in the wall. He hoisted himself into the hole and immediately found a grate blocking his way. He had no time for this.

  Cyrus tested the grate with a shake and then banged his shoulder against it. Metal groaned. With furious haste, Cyrus redoubled his efforts. He bent the metal bars back
enough for him to squeeze through. It cost him a nasty cut in the shoulder. He was beyond caring. He crawled. He crawled until exhaustion forced him to sleep in the tunnel perhaps kilometers away from where he’d broken in.

  He awoke in a cold sweat and with a raging thirst. He listened, expecting evil chuckles from patiently waiting half men. There was only silence. He began to crawl. He did so for hours, maybe for days. When his hands and knees became too tender, he stood and waddled in a painful, bent-over crouch.

  There were side holes and holes in the ceiling. He felt a breeze sometimes. Once, he heard a distant clank from a hole. Much later, light shocked him. He’d rounded a bend, and far in the distance, a bright light confounded him. He stood blinking at it with tears in his eyes. He broke into a shuffling trot and soon grew aware that the light was far away.

  He slept two more times before he reached the light. It flooded down from a chute in the ceiling. He examined the main chute. It was constructed of worn-smooth bricks. Filth stained them. Filth stained his arms, torso, and legs.

  Cyrus stood in the light and wondered if he detected a waver in it as from a fire. He stood gazing upward until he felt a crick in his neck.

  Reluctantly, he continued his trek. It was many sleeps before he took a side tunnel and exited onto a plain. Because it was dark, he had no idea if he left a giant castle or a hole in a mountain. He trudged several more steps before he spied another flare of light.

  He crouched on the plain of darkness. His lips cracked and his tongue might have begun to swell. His legs ached and a cut on the side of his left foot refused to heal properly. He yearned for sandals or boots and longed for even the barest loincloth. A tunic and jacket, he’d trade a year of his life for those, and another year for a gun.

  He realized the tiny point of light came closer. Then he saw the light flicker and knew it was a torch.

  A shock of recognition filled him. A big man with a shaved scalp neared. He had white eyes without pupils. Yes. Cyrus had seen the man in Milan.

  Milan?

  That’s right. He’d been born and raised there, and he’d joined the Psi Force on Earth. In fact, this was a psionic battle between him and the . . . the entity that had screwed with Klane there at the end on the Attack Talon.

  “This isn’t real,” Cyrus said in a hoarse voice.

  The big man had moved closer much too fast, as often happens in a dream.

  “I want a vibrio-blade,” Cyrus said. He concentrated and held his hand just so. As if by magic, a power knife appeared in his hand.

  So, that’s how things worked in this realm.

  “Let’s give myself clothes, boots, and a Latin King jacket,” he said.

  Seconds later, Cyrus wore clothes again. He should have done this a long time ago.

  The big man halted three meters away. The torch flickered oddly, casting blue shadows on him.

  “Who are you?” Cyrus asked.

  “I suppose you’ve earned that much,” the man said. “I am an Eich.”

  “That means you’re not human, are you?”

  “Sometimes I am,” the Eich said, his lips twitching into a smile.

  “What does that mean?” Cyrus asked.

  Those horrible white eyes studied him. “You’ve wearied me. I admit that. You own a stubborn core. But that won’t help you in the end. I have finally found the vessel, and I believe that it will come to me.”

  “What are you talking about?” Cyrus asked.

  “Submit to my will. If you do, I will guide you to power. Resist and I will finally break you here and now.”

  Cyrus studied the big man, the Eich. “I don’t think so. You haven’t been doing too well so far.”

  “Neither have you done well.”

  “Yeah? I’m still in charge of my thoughts.”

  “That is true. But the Kresh have captured your body. They’re returning you to High Station 3.”

  “You’re lying,” Cyrus said.

  “I never lie.”

  “So speaks the liar with false sincerity,” Cyrus said. “Sorry, Mr. Eich, but I grew up in the slums. I know the depths of human depravity, which means I likely know the worst of alien actions.”

  “You are wrong.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “This is your final chance.”

  Cyrus clicked the knife so it whined with power. Then he shouted and charged.

  “You fool. I need your cooperation. I need you to realize—”

  Cyrus thrust the vibrio-blade, and it parted flesh as if the being was made of smoke. That caught Cyrus by surprise. He staggered, and then he tensed. He’d figured this guy must be heavy. Instead, Cyrus’s head and right shoulder passed through the big man.

  “You will never succeed,” the Eich said in a hollow voice. Then he faded like rising smoke from a fire.

  In that instant, Cyrus broke free of the alien entity’s mind lock. The man from Milan opened his eyes, and it took him several seconds to realize where he was.

  Cyrus’s head lay on soft flesh. He looked up into Jana’s concerned face. Her wonderful odor filled his nostrils.

  “He’s awake,” Jana said.

  Another face hovered over him. Cyrus recognized the blunt features of Skar 192.

  Cyrus heard someone else snoring. He heard the thrum of a spaceship’s engines. Then the lean features of Mentalist Niens peered down at him. Those cunning eyes tightened.

  “You’re yourself,” Niens announced.

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said. “Who else would I be?”

  Then it hit him what had been happening. In his own mind, he’d fought the alien entity that had tricked Klane.

  Klane!

  “Where’s the Anointed One?” Cyrus asked in a hoarse voice.

  “He’s dead,” Niens said.

  “What?” Cyrus asked. “That’s impossible. He’s supposed to save Fenris humanity.”

  I still will.

  While on Jana’s lap, Cyrus cocked his head. Who just said that?

  I did, Klane said.

  You’re dead.

  Yes, but my memories and identity transferred into you.

  “We’re losing him,” Niens told the others. “He’s going inward to his mind again.”

  “No, you’re not losing me,” Cyrus told the mentalist. “Where are we?”

  “In a Kresh Battle Fang,” Niens said. “They took us captive. We’re on our way to High Station 3.”

  With a groan, Cyrus sat up. His head throbbed with pain.

  It is time, Klane inside him said.

  Time for what?

  For me to teach you how to destroy the Kresh.

  16

  I’ve been listening while you’ve been battling the singing god, Klane told him.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Cyrus said. “Slow down. Let me get my bearings first.”

  “Who are you talking to?” Jana asked him.

  “What?” Cyrus asked.

  “He’s still confused,” Niens said. “He’s in shock. He may be hopelessly insane.”

  That was too much for Cyrus. He sat up and looked around. They were in a storage vault, around twenty of them. Skar sat nearby, the tough Vomag soldier. He was shorter than everyone else but had wider shoulders and long, dangling arms. Not even square Yang, the former chieftain of Berserker Clan, was as strong. Yang had leathery features and big hands. Others of Berserker Clan lay, sat, or stood nearby. Each of them had partaken of the seeker’s memories. The last group, the shuttle and Attack Talon crew, appeared the most forlorn.

  Cyrus spun around and stared at Niens.

  The mentalist was tall, thin, and wore a rumpled white coat to his knees. He had narrow features, a beak of a nose, and spidery fingers.

  “You have deduced a fact,” Niens announced.

  “You’re right,” Cyr
us said.

  “Do you believe you’re sane?”

  “Sure.”

  “Ah,” Niens said. “You’re not positive?”

  “I’m very positive. I’ve—” Cyrus paused. Maybe this was another trick. The alien entity, the Eich—

  This is no trick, Klane said inside Cyrus’s mind. You’re now viewing reality.

  Cyrus held up his hands as if he could forestall Klane’s thoughts. Then he rubbed his forehead. He had to think this through. The last he remembered of the Anointed One—

  “The laser beam burned down Klane,” Cyrus said.

  “Ah,” Niens said. “It’s good you remember that.”

  “The Kresh in the Battle Fang killed Klane?” Cyrus asked.

  Niens nodded solemnly.

  “And the Kresh boarded and took us captive?”

  “Precisely,” Niens said.

  “That means everything we’re saying is being recorded.”

  “A reasonable deduction,” Niens said.

  Be careful, Klane said. Don’t let the Bo Taw know you’re psionically powerful.

  That was interesting. “Listen,” Cyrus told the others. “I’m, uh, feeling off right now.”

  “You must be hungry,” Niens said.

  As if on cue, Cyrus’s stomach rumbled. “I am hungry,” he said.

  “Feed him,” Niens told the others. “Then we must let him sit alone as he gathers his thoughts.”

  Cyrus wasn’t going to worry how the mentalist knew that. He had too much to think about just now to worry about it. He accepted wafers from the others, wolfing them down. Then he drank metallic-tasting water.

  This felt all too much like his original capture by the Kresh when first taken off Discovery. Then, everything had felt so alien. He was used to the differences by now, but didn’t like them any better.

  Cyrus sat apart from the others, perched his elbows on his knees, and bent his head. He rubbed his forehead, trying to piece things together. Klane was dead. That was difficult to accept.

  My memories transferred to you, Klane told him.

  So you’re speaking from inside me?

  Yes, Klane said.

  Are you still alive in me?

  That isn’t a good question to ask. The answer is . . .